Delusional Drabbling
by thegreatdusknoir
Summary: This is just a handy-dandy place to store all of my PMD:E fics that are either too short, too lame, too ridiculous, or too old to post as a singular piece. Updates will be sporadic. AUs, Actaeonshipping (or at least interaction between the two), and the usual amount of OOCness should be expected. Summaries and warnings inside.


**Drabble #1 (8-22-14)**

**Title:** "Hospital Woes"

**Summary:** Human (not to be confused with human_ized_) AU; Dusknoir takes a trip to the emergency room after breaking his hand, and meets someone who had an experience very similar to his own. Not very shippy? Depends on your definition of that, I guess.

**Warnings:** they're in the emergency room, there's talk of violence and alcohol, and then theres some blood? thats about it. kind of a mellow fic this time

**Notes:** i like AUs because canonverses are always so depressing. instead of having dusknoir trying to slaughter grovyle, then feeling like shit and going through major character development later on, we can have domestic stuff like this! love aus (see bottom for additional notes)

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It wasn't the pain in his knuckles that woke him up, but instead the loud hacking noise that had started up slightly to his left – he jolted awake almost immediately, adjusted his askew glasses with his good hand, and looked over to see exactly who had dared to wake him from his (albeit, shallow) slumber. A middle-aged woman had seated herself no less than two chairs away from him, and was now coughing a rather yellowish bit of gunk into a tissue. He watched in vague disgust as she first examined the _thing_ that had come from her lungs, then folded the tissue up and stuck it in her purse. Just as she looked over to see him, he diverted his gaze to the ceiling. Oh, no way. No way was _he_ gonna talk to _her_. As her coughing started up again, he began praying to a god (any god at this point, really) that what she had wasn't contagious, and that somebody would see to him soon.

Taking a trip to the emergency room really wasn't the best of ideas Dusknoir had ever had – though his right hand was swollen, bruised, and in more pain than he cared to describe, he should have googled some sort of home-treatment. Should have just…taken some ibuprofen, wrapped it up in some bandages, and hoped for the best. That'd do more good than the last three hours in the waiting room had, that was for sure.

Shiftily, he glanced over to the woman again, who was now dry-coughing into her hands. He felt his nose unintentionally wrinkle in disgust, and decided that moving would be the best option. He tried to look around carefully – it was honestly difficult to, though, as he was sitting close to the front of the room. Naively, he had assumed that the closer he sat to the mysterious pulled curtains, the faster a nurse would scurry over and help fix his presumably broken knuckles. He was, of course, wrong. So, so wrong. Before he had fallen asleep, the room had only been about half-full, but it seemed in the past…thirty minutes or so, according to his watch, about twenty other ailed people found their ways to the room. Great.

The woman reached over and nudged him; he cringed involuntarily and reeled back. "Do you have any napkins?" she asked in the voice of a forty-year-old smoker. Dusknoir found himself momentarily speechless, then, almost shakily, pointed to the left corner of the room, where a table was set up with odds and ends such as those. He had noticed it on his way in. The woman thanked him briskly, then stood up and ambled her merry ol' way over there.

Dear god.

He couldn't help but to watch her, partially out of boredom, partially because the television nearest to him was playing a subtitled cooking show – and that was, perhaps, the first good idea he'd had since he woken up in an alley several hours before. Next to the table, in the corner, were three seats; one was occupied, directly in the corner, by a normal-looking (if hippie-ish) man. He held an icepack to his nose and had a book in his lap. Dear lord. Savior at last.

Picking up his jacket, he quickly moved (certainly not _dashed_, though bystanders may have disagreed) to the farthest seat away from the silent man, sat down, and let out a quick sigh of relief. The woman from earlier glanced at him almost begrudgingly as she scooped up a handful of tissues from the table. He shrugged, and she returned to her seat across the room without a word.

Now, _now_ everything was all right. Quiet guy to his right, sick people far away, and the damned cooking channel just out of his line of vision. He could go back to sleep, if he so wanted.

He tried to position himself in the chair (quietly, of course) into a more comfortable position, but that was when he realized the catch – the other chairs, by the coughing and wheezing and bleeding folk, were as comfortable as an emergency room chair could be; the chairs in the corners, _away_ from the hullaballoo, were stiff and sharp.

Dusknoir internally kicked himself before looking resentfully down at the injury that had landed him there.

"There are ice packs right next to you."

Dusknoir glanced over at the speaker; the man whose nose was still in his book – or rather, probably would be if he wasn't holding ice to it. "On the table," he added, still not bothering to glance in his direction.

"…Thanks," Dusknoir said back, then leaned over to retrieve the item. It was cold, and after setting it onto his hand, he felt only numbness and gratitude for the stranger.

"Not a problem," he said back, shifting his own ice pack ever-so-slightly. Though his long brown hair was pulled back, a few strands hung over the sides of his face, which prevented Dusknoir from _seeing_ what ailed the man. However, given the familiar reddish bruising around his nose and cheekbones, he assumed that he had broken his nose. Probably fell face-first into a bookshelf, he thought with an internal chuckle.

He looked oddly familiar, though Dusknoir couldn't quite place where he had seen him before. He probably lived nearby, or maybe they shopped at the same grocery store? Went to high school together? Stood in the same line at the DMV? The possibilities were nauseatingly endless. Dusknoir decided not to think about it.

He closed his eyes as he thought, and leaned back into the chair – he must have been drifting off into the idealistic place he called dreamland, as he was woken for the second time that day – thankfully, this time didn't include any hunks of infectious looking lung-goo; the man next to him simply shook his shoulder from across the seats, and said very simply, though significantly more nasally than before, "Your face is bleeding."

Dusknoir cracked an eyelid open. "Yeah?"

"Are you aware of that?"

"I assumed, given the, I don't know, blood on my collar." He straightened himself up, then took his good hand and traced his fingertips over the scratches. True to the man's word, there was blood. "Oh. They've reopened."

He watched as the man first set his ice pack (and book) on his chair's arm, revealing his crooked and swollen nose, and then, as if ready for anything, pulled a carton of hydrogen peroxide, a baggy of cotton balls, and a handful of band-aids from the backpack under his chair. Dusknoir eyed this all in general disbelief as he realized what he wanted to do. "I don't know you," he said quickly, as if that'd avert the man from helping.

"I'm Grovyle," he said. "The doctor's going to fix your hand, not your face. Do you want it to get infected?"

"Well-"

He launched into a very convincing tone of voice, one that Dusknoir could tell he used often; "My roommate's studying medicine, and I've seen her disinfect enough scratches to do it myself." A pause, "…And I'm not a child. I'm not going to pour the peroxide in your eyes."

"Yeah, but _why_?"

"You look pathetic."

Dusknoir frowned.

Insistently, "Let me help."

He stared at him, an ultimatum forming in his mind, along with the shy idea of a small camaraderie with the weirdo; "Fine," he said, "go for it. I'll sue if you fuck it up."

To his surprise, Grovyle laughed; though it was nasally, it was surprisingly warm. Whatever doubt he had in his mind quickly disappeared.

"Lean over," Grovyle directed, unscrewing the bottle of peroxide.

Dusknoir did as he directed. "I have to ask," he said, watching as Grovyle pulled out a cotton ball. "Are you even allowed to...do that…here?"

"Beats me," Grovyle said. After swishing some peroxide onto the cotton, he warned, "This might sting."

"I've had scrapes disinfected befo-" Dusknoir stopped midsentence as Grovyle pressed the damp cotton to one of the scrapes, then involuntarily whined, "-oooooooooow."

"I'd hardly call this a scrape," Grovyle said, dabbing at his face, and it felt too awkward to have the guy so close to his face, so Dusknoir just closed his eyes. "More of a cut. How did you get this?"

"I got into a fight," Dusknoir mumbled, getting used to the continuous stinging. It wasn't worse than the pain in his hand, at least. "Don't remember most of it, actually."

"Oh? Were you…" A pause, "…Under the influence?"

"I was drinking," Dusknoir confirmed, "probably…probably too much." He had woken up in a box next to a pool of his own vomit and blood in an unknown alley; yeah, he had drank too much.

"Well, most everyone's been there," Grovyle said, though Dusknoir doubted that _he_ had ever been in such a situation before. "Doesn't explain your face, though. Were you fighting a girl?"

"I'm – I'm not _complete_ scum, you know. No, he just…had a knife, I think."

"They aren't deep enough to be from a knife," Grovyle _tsked_ him. "Who'd aim for the face? If they had a knife, you'd have a hole in your abdomen right about now."

"I suppose he just had long nails," Dusknoir tried to shrug. "I really don't recall most of it." He peeled his eyes open, and saw the man's nose only inches away from his own. They were…too close for his liking, though he excused it for medical purposes. After all, Grovyle leaned back to get a new cotton ball – Dusknoir couldn't help but to notice the glaringly reddish stains left on the used cotton balls, though, and his frown turned into a grimace. Grovyle glanced back at him. Dusknoir closed his eyes.

"What about you?" he asked, trying not to notice how the guy's hand brushed against his nose. Physical contact had never been his thing. He was starting to wonder why he'd agreed to this. "What…what happened to your nose?"

"You're asking that as if we're in prison, and you're trying to figure out what crime I committed," Grovyle said, and Dusknoir could very distinctly hear the grin in his voice. Eurgh.

"We might as well be," he pointed out.

"Not necessarily." He paused, and Dusknoir was starting to realize that the guy was wont to dramatic pauses. "I got into a fight too, actually. Bickered with some asshole, ended up with a broken nose."

"What were you bickering about?"

"Something stupid. I don't remember."

"What, were you drunk too?"

"No. I don't drink."

"Religious reasons?"

"Just don't like it. Tastes bad, makes you feel bad – what's the point?"

"Good question," Dusknoir said, and he knew it certainly wasn't one he could answer without delving into silly personal matters. Everyone's reasoning was more or less the same, though, and he knew that Grovyle knew the vague idea already.

"Just about done here. Do you want bandages, or no?"

"No."

"Afraid you'll look even more ridiculous?"

"Something like that," Dusknoir said, and opened his eyes once he realized that Grovyle was no longer two inches away from him. He leaned back into his own seat and dimly watched as Grovyle put his things away, then picked his icepack back up. It occurred to him that the poor guy had removed the pack (and his probable only relief from pain, unless he had some painkillers in that magical mystical bag of his) so as to assist him, and he _still_ didn't know why. Dusknoir had his nose broken before – back when he was a young teen; it wasn't pretty – and recalled the acute pain as well as he recalled the day itself; there was no way in hell he'd let it hurt just to help a stranger.

He felt as though he was missing something.

"Something like that," Grovyle repeated. "Oh, and make sure to clean your face when you get out of here, all right?"

"Did you hurt the guy who punched you?" Dusknoir asked, ignoring what Grovyle said, as he felt as though it was somehow the right direction to steer the conversation. "Rather, did you fight back?"

"What? Somewhat," Grovyle said. "I turned heel and ran after the first punch. Didn't want to break anything else."

"Well, if you – if you _saw_ him again, would you want to get even?"

Distantly, he heard his full name being called at the front desk.

"Hmm," Grovyle said, "that's a tough question."

His name was called again. "That's – that's me," Dusknoir said, standing up and grabbing his jacket.

"Dusknoir?" Grovyle said. "You didn't tell me your name."

"Didn't ask," Dusknoir said. "I've – I've got to go." Thanks for the…" He gestured at his face.

"Not a problem," Grovyle said, as he had said earlier; "Good luck with your hand."

"Yeah," Dusknoir said. "See you later."

He began to walk away, but Grovyle's voice stopped him. "Wait," he said. "About your question."

He spun back around. "Yeah?"

"I don't think I'd hurt him. I'd want to figure out why he punched me, for starters." There was an odd smile on Grovyle's face as he again adjusted his icepack.

It was with a sense of confusion, dread, and bewilderment that Dusknoir noticed how peculiarly long and sharp the man's nails were, and as the woman at the front desk called his name more and more impatiently, he realized that there was nothing he could do about this situation. Nothing at all.

"I apologize," he said, and weirdly, he meant it – he promptly turned on his heels and sprinted towards the front desk, much in the same way Grovyle had ran from him the night prior.

The only thing he could hear was Grovyle chuckling behind him.

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**Additional Notes:** none of this makes any sense, but i like the idea nonetheless! it was actually pretty fun to write, even if it's. not very. in character. or relevant to anything at all. ah well! the next drabble should be posted [confused duck noises; they're loud enough to prevent you from hearing what im saying]! that should be cool. maybe. feel free to review, comment, or do whatever ya want! for instance, go make yourself a cup of hot cocoa. that's an example of you doing whatever ya want. unless, of course, you read that as a command, in which your rebellious side is now saying, "maddox, i dont even want hot cocoa, screw off". dang. go to your room, champ. that's just rude. i'm telling your mother about this, and she is NOT gonna be impressed. shame on you.

(thanks for reading)


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